


Let It Die

by lichtuitmixa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtuitmixa/pseuds/lichtuitmixa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi bites his lips and looks at the sun as it sinks. It’s the same old sun, the same old fire burning over his head, the same old fire underneath and inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Die

Xabi can smell the eastern sun on his shirt: a strange combination of earth and sea salt which he also inhales through the bed sheet fabric. 

It leaves an entirely different aroma, resembling neither the Spanish nor English sun. It settles like a layer of sticky tape over his nape, behind his ears, the back of his knees, between his arms, and not even the cool mist from the air-conditioning could peel it away.

He goes to the bathroom and turns the bath water on, rifling through the complimentary soaps around the counter as he waits. 

Everyone else is still down at the bar. He should be there with them, playing teamwork diplomacy. But he can’t find it in himself to belong anywhere else tonight. 

He turns the faucet off and walks back into his saffron room, a mirror of Bangkok outside his opened windows as the setting sun sets fire to everything. 

For a short moment, he’s convinced he has never seen the sun go down that way before and he starts thinking about the first time he saw it set on Albert’s Dock. Then, his phone ruptures the silence. 

He's been waiting for this call all day long. He surrenders his patience to the rewarding sound of Nagore’s voice sighing ‘Finally’ and telling him ‘I missed you.’

Xabi smiles and forgets about his shower and he lies down at the foot of the bed. He tells her he misses her too and asks her about her day.

The mundane, as hard as he tries to care about them, mostly escapes Xabi’s attention. The routine discussion of their friends and certain bureaucracies of their lives fail to make him feel any less distant from home. And in the course of the hour that passes, he ends up turning the television on, grazing guiltily through the Thai channels while Nagore goes on about going home for her sister’s graduation.

“And oh,” she says, her voice rising in excitement, “Guess what I made Jon do today.”

Xabi draws himself forward, the remote slipping idly from his palm as he leans into the thrilled sound of Nagore’s voice.

“Well, _I_ didn’t really make him do anything. It kind of just - happened. We were watching TV this morning. I was looking for the kid’s channel and I crossed Sky Sports and there was this montage about the club. The voice over was chanting ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, and I don’t know how he caught it but Jon started to flail his arms to the beat and then next thing I knew, he was singing along.” 

Xabi’s heart swells. “You’re kidding,”

“I’m not.” He could hear the smile in her voice, “I mean, sure, you couldn’t understand what he was saying, he just mumbled through it all, but he hit the right notes.”

Xabi knows he should be overjoyed but the frustration of missing the chance to see his son do something amazing overrules it. He sulks into the sheets and tries to turn the volume of the TV down but he hits the wrong buttons in his haste. 

Nagore soothes him, tells him that Jon can tell he’s not around and that they’re both looking forward to seeing him home soon. 

Xabi nurses the phone against his ear as though he could feel his wife’s hands through it. 

Sometime between the hours that pass, he falls asleep shortly after he tells Nagore goodnight, the sound of the BBC broadcaster’s voice about the wildfires in Spain drifting into a baritone lull.

 

-

 

Florentino calls him on the plane back to England. 

Xabi is sitting by the window alone in the back. Fernando had wandered off to the front to talk to Pepe about buying property in North England. The idea of it all, of Torres engaging Reina on England’s policies on lease, mortgages, landholdings and real estate investments, makes Xabi itch a little. 

He should be the one doing that. But he isn't. Why?

The thought quickly disappears when he realizes who the voice on the other end of the line belongs to.

“I don’t want to come across as rude, forgive me,” clarifies the Madrid boss.

Xabi quickly glances at his teammates and the back of Rafa’s head from a distance, then leans furtively towards the window. He lowers his voice and says, “I’m listening.”

There’s a sudden sound of movement on the other end, like a cough being covered up on the side or a hand running down the creases on a _chaqueta_. 

“We want to make it clear that the board regards you quite highly,” Florentino leaves it to Xabi to make the same leap of affirmation. The president is calling him after all. “I personally believe you can contribute a lot to the team and there is a substantial atmosphere of competition within the ranks that can help fulfil your needs as a player.”

A hundred thousand thoughts race across Xabi’s head, but he keeps them all in check and flatly responds, “Like I said before, the transaction should involve my agent and Benitez.”

“Of course, of course,” agrees Florentino hastily, as if he was above poaching players. He knows he’s already made his point. He has shown Xabi exactly how wide they’re holding the door open for him. He doesn’t linger.

“We’re looking forward to seeing you.”

Xabi hasn’t even completely turned his phone off when Alvaro suddenly slips right next to him. Xabi acts surprised to hide his alarm, guiltily shoving his phone to the bottom side of his trousers.

“Was that El Capitan?” inquires Alvaro jeeringly. 

Xabi pointedly looks at him. “What are you doing here?”

Alvaro shrugs, “Fernando made me trade seats.”

Xabi checks the front and, true enough: a crown of blonde hair has reposted itself firmly next to a shiny, bald one. He represses a groan. 

It isn’t a state secret that Xabi relished these rare times of solitude, whether deliberate or by-product of someone else leaving him that way. He can never manage to keep it long enough, though, being a magnet for reprieve or for whatever other purpose his teammates seemed to regard him, and Xabi resented it sometimes.

“I’m leaving for Madrid,” blurts Alvaro out of nowhere, drawing Xabi’s attention to him effectively.

Xabi’s mouth snaps half way open; the combined feelings of surprise and disbelief and guilt dissolving as he finds nothing remotely insincere about the way the younger Spaniard looks back at him. 

“You’re serious,” declares Xabi, the observation pulling him through the motions, and a sense of dread settles heavily between them.

Alvaro nods meekly, pursing his lips around the void left by his secret revealed. He runs his hands through his hair and grins at Xabi, looking more apologetic. “Got the papers signed too. They’re just waiting for us to land.”

Xabi sinks in his seat, searching for something to say. He can’t think beyond the familiar feelings that are slowly unfurling within. He restrains them, and musters weakly, “It’s not going to be the same without you.”

Alvaro snorts and rolls his eyes. Xabi is still busy working out his emotions to take offense, but he does stare incredulously at his seatmate. 

“ _I’m_ not gonna be the same, but Liverpool?” Alvaro grins, wider this time, “I don’t think she’ll take it too hard. I mean, she was good to me, you know, _the best_. But I don’t _belong to her_. Not like _you_ do,”

“Alvaro,” starts Xabi, his voice rising over the flurry of feelings that Alvaro excites, but he’s got nothing to say. He doesn’t have the answer or even the right questions. All he’s got is the broiling uncertainty inside of him. He decides not to continue. 

He sits back instead, defeated. 

Alvaro is watching him, an intense, worried look in his eyes. He taps his fingers on his knees then sits back with Xabi, hums and eventually says, “She won’t take it against you.”

Xabi doesn’t move, letting his eyes travel over the wall and outside the window. 

They’re crossing glades of clouds, the hint of the morning sun behind them leaving shadows that chase the tail of the plane’s silver wings. 

 

-

 

He doesn’t hear his phone ring at first, his attention vacuumed and strapped to the thoughts inside his head. He assumes the noise had been imagined as well, but then the sound grows louder and the plaque on the wall slowly teeters back into focus.

He pulls his phone out, surprised brown eyes flickering softly over the screen.

“Digame,” he greets quietly, clearing the hoarse thirst in his voice. 

“Where are you? I’m parked at the front entrance,” 

As if for the first time that day, Xabi realizes where he is and automatically steps back into the main corridor. 

Before he leaves, he glances briefly at the plaque again, at the red liverbird watching over the hollow stairwell as the narrow path emptily descended to the field. Very slowly, he turns away and says his on his way out. 

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” assures Steven Gerrard, even though there’s nothing particularly fine about having to wait for someone, Xabi thinks. 

When he walks out of Anfield’s shadow, he finds Steven exactly where he said he was going to be. Leaning across the hood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, he greets Xabi with a small smile as he approaches.

Steven looks strikingly comfortable this way, his shoulders low and relaxed like he has all the time in the world. As though, just like he said, he didn’t really mind waiting for Xabi to come around. 

They don’t hug or kiss or anything. Steven’s arms stay firmly around his body and Xabi deposits all his urges to his hand carry. 

“Welcome back,” greets Steven, “How was Asia?”

“Foreign,” recollects Xabi. 

They pause then burst into comfortable laughter, closing the distance a little. 

Inside the car, the amusement continues, and Steven perches his confidence on the easiness and declares, “Freeman”.

Steven was referring to himself, of course. But the words strikes a chord in Xabi and he looks down on his knees. 

“Congratulations,” 

Preoccupied with recounting the trial, Steven doesn’t notice Xabi beyond his periphery. The younger man is grateful, himself preoccupied with figuring out how he’s supposed to tell Steven that he is preparing to leave the club. 

Nothing comes and time passes and all that Xabi has done by the end of it is stare at his captain, highlighting every shadow and colour, disconnecting Steven’s fingers from the wheel and approximating his happiness to the distance of each smile that ties to make it to the end of his ears.

When Steven concludes his story, he presses Xabi to share his but Xabi’s not ready. Xabi ends up blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“How did Alex take it?” 

The Englishman knows quite well how Xabi never really warmed up to his wife, not in all the years he's been in Liverpool. But he answers the Spaniard anyway, slow and compressed. 

A kind of silence settles between them afterwards, waiting, on Steven’s part, and stalling, on Xabi’s. Steven can tell that the question about Alex hadn’t been what Xabi was planning to say, and Xabi is getting the feeling Steven’s waiting for him to get it together. 

Again. 

Gathering in strength, Xabi asks, “How much time do we have?” 

It’s good they've stopped at an intersection, giving Steven the liberty to stare a little and then to shakingly check his watch.

The silence that follows them is no longer tense and acute. It is electrified with anticipation. S, many things have changed in the past year, their separate lives having each been saturated with the contrite and rendered anaemic of any moment of respite, less and less have these moments happened that Xabi had thought - had expected some kind of reluctance. 

Perhaps, to some extent, he wanted to find some.

They pass by Albert’s dock, the faint hint of purple highlighting where the sunset and the evening convened. The lampposts grow brighter in the absence of day. Xabi runs his hands across his hair and Steven steps on the gas. 

They rent two rooms and Steven slips the key to the extra room into his back pocket, holding the other one in a tight, seamless grip.

They haven’t done this in a long time - renting avenues for their vices. They’ve always had a plethora of other options, of places less strange than what they are supposed to do. 

So, the setting sends them back months and days, maybe years. They are now away from what is more familiar and immediate – locker rooms, their cars, their homes, their quiet summer houses. 

Instead, they encounter phantom emotions from the times long past, moments they had spent in countless hotels around the world: the anxiety of every game, the foreignness of every new city and the redeeming familiarity in each other’s company – everything but the last is muted by the sound of the lock clicking behind them. 

Steven plops down on the bed, testing it, remarks in a jeering, self-conscious way, “This will do.”

Xabi drops his hand carry on the bedside table and approaches the windows. He pulls the curtains apart just a little, the fragmented sight of Liverpool brimming with all her lights beyond the glass. 

It reassures him somehow. 

Steven’s warmth brings him relief as his captains arms circle around him and Xabi pulls the curtains down on impulse.

He tilts his head and Steven settles his mouth along the side of Xabi’s neck, whispers, “I missed you,” right across his throat. Xabi shivers and the same words come crawling right back out of his own lips. 

The older man pulls him away from the drapes. Xabi's grip latches onto one side and he drags it half-way open again before his hand falls away altogether. He doesn’t go back for it, mentally inviting the city he has learned to love to watch him, to know him completely now.

They don’t bother with the lights or with pulling back the sheets. On the bed, they don’t bother with anything else but each other, Xabi leaning on his elbows and Steven perched on his arms, their bodies inclined like a jigsaw puzzle. 

Steven moves Xabi’s legs apart with his, settling himself between them. The movement forces the weight on Xabi’s elbows and they give way. But before he hits the bed Steven’s hand winds firmly around his spine and pushes him back up, back to him. 

Their bodies fuse and Steven shifts Xabi’s legs around his hips, and they conclude the momentum in a soft pliant kiss. 

Xabi’s eyes close around the heat; the lights of the city and the room disappear under his eyelids. He blindly reaches up to hold Steven’s face as their tongues lock in a languid dance, with Xabi left wondering and moved by the taste of oranges in Steven's mouth. 

Xabi's brain reels, and it takes some time before he realizes it’s from the lack of oxygen; they both withdraw, short and hungry kisses stolen in between breaths. 

Xabi blinks through the fog and breaks into a lazy smile; Steven just angles his head and leans forward.

The Spaniard falls on his back. The brief absence of contact is resolved when Steven leans down to trace the root of his neck with his lips. Xabi moans and closes his eyes, every breath he makes punctuated with Steven’s mouth finding its way back on every space on the surface of his skin.

Hands caress his sides, lifting his shirt out of his jeans. Xabi sits up to pull it off completely, meeting Steven in another impatient kiss. The longer they go, the faster the taste of oranges thin out until all that’s left is Steven just as Xabi remembers him. 

Then the captain pulls back, leaving Xabi aching and protesting against the sudden cold that takes over; he realizes quickly it’s less from the absence and more from the fact that the heater’s off.

Xabi shivers and Steven quickly gets the message. He gets up and turns the knob on the control panel by the door. He takes off his shirt as he comes back and Xabi meets him half the distance, putting his arms around the Englishman, holding on tight to the flushed feeling of their bodies to show Steven how much he has missed this.

How much he’s _going to miss_ it. 

Xabi bites his lips and forces the thought back. 

This isn’t the time or place for that.

Steven plays his part and pushes them back on the mattress with a hand on Xabi’s jeans. The Spaniard lifts his hips to make it easier. Desire presses him against the bed, naked and waiting, but love brings him crawling back on his knees, moaning as he watches Steven undress himself. 

Xabi leisurely plants kisses across his captain’s shoulders - the outline of his strength - and runs his hands above his chest - the invisible impression of Liverpool’s crest beating underneath his fingers. Xabi kisses Steven on the side of his neck, licks the long the depression above his clavicle. He feels Steven’s chest muscles tighten under his fingers as his throat frees open to throw a few curses to the air. 

The Spaniard pulls back, lifting his gaze into Steven’s eyes. 

The dim yellow light around them makes it difficult for the colours to show properly. But Xabi can still see every blue spec in Steven’s eyes turn black with lust, and he can feel his captain breathing fall deeper. He feels the beat of his own heart closing in the pace Steven sets.

He reaches down and clamps his hand over Steven’s hard cock, holding it close to his own, hard and readily curled against his abdomen for attention, as he parts his lips over Steven’s. The Englishman’s eyes roll shut, his mouth falling open and he whispers hotly, “Oh, Xabi. I-”, and Xabi catches every panted syllable. 

He smiles wickedly and moves his grip around Steven’s cock, relishing the warmth and all the feeling caged in it. Steven thrusts into his hold and plants his hands around Xabi’s hips, fingers digging into the layers of sun-kissed skin.

And just like this, Xabi wants to stay just like this for as long as he can. But time doesn’t stay suspended, not for them, and he has only enough of it to show Steven everything he wants, everything he feels. 

His pulse vibrates with the pressure as he begins to lower his head. It is worship, he thinks, and it’s everything this man deserves.

Steven runs a shaking hand through Xabi’s hair, his breath caught in the merciless constriction in his throat. It doesn’t stay trapped for long and he cries out as his midfielder, his best mate envelops his hot, wet mouth around the red, angry length of his cock. 

“Jesus, fuckfuck _fuck_.” 

The pressure on Xabi’s hair sharpens and he pulls back, letting his tongue roll around the head and sucking softly on the sensitive slit. 

“Xabi, you – oh god, _baby_.”

Steven’s other hand finds its way holding on for life on Xabi’s shoulders and his fingers dig deep enough to leave marks. And they’re going to be there in the morning, dark angry prints testifying to this, to what they have now, but even they won’t last long enough. 

They’re not going to be there when Xabi takes his first steps in Bernabeau. Not in blessing, not in feeling, Steven would not be with him in Madrid and the thought makes the Basque crazy greedy. 

He didn’t come here to take anything from Steven, but something in the basement of his soul unfurls, a hungry desperate void that urges him to fill it with everything Steven can give. He probably doesn’t deserve any of it, but he reckons even the most sincerely guilty part of him doesn’t have the courage to resist the undercurrent of desire flooding his being. 

He curls his hands around Steven’s hips, pulling the rest of his captain’s cock into his mouth, moaning around the heavy length. The vibrations run right into Steven’s skin and flesh like an angry song and he gives a loud cry of pain and satisfaction and he runs his fingers sharply across the breadth of Xabi’s shoulders.

Just like that, Xabi feels a familiar need and want to make Steven bury himself where he gets no take backs, because Xabi gets no take backs in this. 

Xabi moves his mouth around Steven’s cock, slow and loving and reverent, almost like he’s memorizing the feeling and the moment, all the while pulling Steven to the edge where he knows it won’t take much to push him right over, right where Xabi’s waiting to catch him. 

He speeds up somewhere in the middle, just to get the friction going, and then he tilts his head around and kisses the side of Steven’s cock, feeling it twitch in his hand when he softly jerks it upwards, striking the angry vein underneath with a languid stroke of his tongue. 

Steven makes a noise that’s half-way between encouraging and demanding, and it makes Xabi all warm inside. Hot because he’s turned on beyond relief, sure, that’s a given, but the warmth Steven rouses is something else entirely because it leaves Xabi with the thought that Steven gets it. 

Steven gets that Xabi wants to be gentle this time and he resolves to understand him, letting go and letting Xabi take the lead. It’s only unusual because as captain, it’s usually Steven’s job to set the pace. 

That the partnership between them is able to transcend the pitch, moving not just victories and triumphs but desires and secrets wordlessly and unquestioning, Xabi remembers why he’s here in the first place. 

The realization brings him an equal measure of lust and guilt and it’s just a matter of choosing to address one over the other. 

So, Xabi starts snaking his hands between his legs, passing his own cock, hard and leaking and begging for attention, pulling between himself for that perfect space when Steven stops him. 

“Let me,” 

And here, this part, he only knows too well. 

He obviously needs to re-examine the praise he’s extolling Steven for being able to relent control and to review his own capabilities because he clearly enjoys sitting back and spreading his legs more, if only because it makes Steven moan appreciatively. 

His captain shifts between the inviting space he makes, and it’s just pure instinct between them from here on out. 

Xabi doesn’t have to think about it all; his body moves around on its own, guiding Steven to the spaces he needs him to be and it’s a familiar dance of need and want that puts the pressure in the right places – Xabi thrusting forward until their cocks are pressed between similar spaces of skin, Steven perching his hands on either side of his head and leaning down hard across the bare, warm skin of his neck, breathing him in, biting, taking his fill while Xabi writhes underneath, all accepting and hands searching desperately for more. 

When Steven gets up to find anything in the bathroom that might function as lube, leaving Xabi splayed and panting, the Spaniard closes his eyes around the thought, maybe, he doesn’t want to leave at all. 

You have to run twice as fast just to stay in the same place, right? And Xabi feels like he’s slowing down somehow and it’s getting harder and harder to catch up. At some point, he knows in his head that he has got to stop but it feels wrong because his _heart understands_ there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

His regrets come marching forward in Steven’s brief absence, but he forces them to fall back, squeezing his eyes and tilting his head up to stop the tears, because he recognizes the rare fortune in this opportunity. 

There’s no other way to go around it. 

A hand falls on his arms, startling him a little. He blinks his eyes open and the first thing he sees through the blur is Steven, concern written on every corner of his face. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, running his hands up and down Xabi’s shoulders soothingly. 

The younger man honestly doesn’t know. But he does understand one thing in the ambiguous fog of emotions inside of him and this singular clarity allows him to lean into Steven’s space, circling his arms around the Englishman’s neck and pulling them into each other. 

He tells him, before he sighs into Steven’s reassuring kiss, he says, “I want you”, against his lips and the words escape into Steven’s mouth like a prayer, a song or an oath. 

The kiss is fluid and slow and apparently powerful because it wheedles out Xabi’s guilt and regrets and pain again and he doesn’t want any of them right now, because he doesn’t want to actually start crying during sex. 

He doesn’t want to leave Steven any of these horrible feelings. So, he intensifies his touches because he wants Steven to forget what tomorrow’s going to change and to remember this, right here. 

It takes little effort to prepare him. Xabi watches with increasingly shallow breaths as his captain kisses his navel, running his hands softly along Xabi’s thighs, holding him open. 

He hollows out around the first finger and, clearly, _it’s been too long_. 

Steven keeps kissing him in the right places, along his cock, along the sensitive skin inside of his thighs, and, except for the sharp breath he takes as the second digit breaches him, everything – all of it – just feels so easy. 

Steven presses his fingers inside of him, scissoring them in and out until he finds that amazing place. And even though he doesn’t want it to, the pleasure spans out every nerve in his body and forces Xabi to shut his eyes around the stars in his system, because fuck. 

All the bad emotions, the fear, they vanish with every stroke, thinning out to leave only hot, white pleasure and desire and one other thing that Xabi doesn’t have yet the courage to say.

When Steven’s hovering above him moments later, his cock pressed against Xabi’s hole, only inching further but not more, not too much, _not yet_ , Xabi feels his chest burn with longing. 

He reaches for Steven’s face as his captain looks at him with a mixed sense of apprehension and curiosity. If he hadn’t figured it out yet (the mere thought sends Xabi’s heart racing in fear), then, with all the years they had between them, memorizing every nook and corner of each other’s body and soul, Xabi knows – is dead sure that Steven at least suspects something is up. 

Xabi half-expects Steven to stop and ask, but he doesn’t. He just leans forward and kisses him, deep and short, as if to say, _it’s okay, I trust you_.

Then, he sinks in, and Xabi feels the pain and pleasure swallow him whole, and it’s just too much. Steen suddenly stops moving above him, clutches his face forward and says, “Hey, hey. Xabi?”

Xabi paces his breathing and he feels Steven’s hand on his heart, then, he pushes them both to their knees and he locks the Englishman in slow, thoughtful kisses. 

He’s not entirely sure how he manages that or how he’s able to run a hand between their bodies and there’s Steven, buried snug and deep inside of him. They’ve done this so many times before, it’s easy, but he’s never needed it this bad.

“Fuck me.” 

The first time he says it, Steven doesn’t really do anything. He just keeps looking at Xabi, the hard line of his shoulders tense and rigid as he anchors the two of them on his strength alone, one arm holding Xabi against him and the other perched on the mattress. 

“Come on, Steven,” Xabi places both his hands on Steven’s sides, directing him, “ _Stevie_ , fuck me.”

He could feel his captain’s heart beating dangerous and frantic against his own. 

Finally, Steven pulls half-way out and thrusts back in and Xabi, honest to god, whines out of his skin. 

It’s a convoluted ‘yes’ that falls from his lips because they’ve never done it this way before and obviously, they should have tried – the angle allows Steven to drive his cock right into that spot _every_ time, forcing Xabi’s head clear of anything else but the bright hot stars he’s putting there.

Xabi has to move his legs around so that he’s somewhat sitting across Steven’s lap. He can feel his captain’s hold slipping down his waist, not necessarily looser, but Xabi smiles against Steven’s forehead because _he really is_ doing such a swell job holding them together, and in more ways than Xabi can count.

He clutches down on Steven’s shoulder and tries to set a rhythm that allows him to match Steven’s every thrust. It hurts the first time because he sinks down without warning and Steven meets him with an equal force. 

Xabi instinctively tightens his muscles around the pain and he has to doubly brace himself because Steven convulses around him, his cock still caught inside.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He gasps like someone just pulled his lungs out through his skin. 

Xabi moans at the sound, reaching down between their tightly pressed bodes for his own aching cock. And then he lifts himself up again, watching the confusing mixture of pain and relief that crosses Steven’s face and the full blown ecstasy that overcomes it when Xabi sinks himself back down. 

And now it’s tender and slower and Steven finds his own rhythm, reaching for Xabi’s face and kissing him everywhere and somehow making everything infinitely better. 

There’s a thrust for every victory and every defeat they ever shared and it’s like a lifetime passes in between and every ration of remaining regret in Xabi’s body transforms into unending gratitude. 

Nothing lasts forever, least of all, the best things in life, and he finds himself making peace with that. And his soul burns with the truth and his desires and fears and everything he loves and it’s too much, but he learns to let go. 

And like their story on the field, by some ineffable cosmic design, they meet half-way, coming only seconds short of each other. Steven buries his face into Xabi’s shoulders the whole time, panting, “Fuck, Xabi. I love you, baby – _I love you_.” 

The second time, Xabi knows he means it and he has to bite his lips to stop himself from crying.

 

As soon as he locks the bathroom door, he sinks to floor and sobs. He doesn’t take his time juggling the options in his head whether to tell Steven now or tomorrow. The whole evening had been reserved for that conversation, but he never imagined this scenario. 

What is he supposed to say now?

He checks the clock on the wall as he gets up to clean himself. It’s nearly 8 and he ponders if he should just leave. 

When he comes out, Steven is standing by the window, talking in hushed tones to someone on the phone. Xabi could only guess, doesn’t ask, but that decides it for him, then, doesn’t it?

The room feels moist and the sheets have been discarded. It’s been a while and Steven doesn’t take too long on the phone; he’s had enough time to figure out better reasons to explain why he isn’t coming home tonight. 

He pulls out extra blankets from the closet and throws them over Xabi before he climbs in. 

Xabi pillows his head on Steven's arms as looks through the half-drawn curtains at the city outside. He puts his hand over Steven’s just because he wants to and he feels them curl responsively. 

Xabi turns his head around to see his captain sleeping, his chest moving softly in the shadows. Xabi doesn’t get any rest that night. He simply watches Steven until the morning breaks. He gets up eventually, leaves a note on the pillow before he walks out the door. He doesn’t have to think too hard about the words, writes them as he feels them.

 

-

 

When the news erupts, Xabi refuses to pick up a single call. He’s got at least 50 voicemails by the middle of the day when he finally decides to divert all of his the incoming ones to his agent’s office. 

Nagore thinks he’s being hard on himself and unfair to everyone else. Xabi tells her that he needs to focus on moving the family back to Spain. Nagore is frustrated by this excuse. She shoves the baby bottle into Xabi’s hand and leaves him with John. She always hates it when he’s being condescending. 

In the end, he doesn’t really shut them all out. 

Before he leaves, he does right by them and contacts Pepe first who picks up and hangs up on him without as much as a hello. Xabi thinks he deserves it so, he calls back four times and when the wall finally crumbles, Pepe doesn’t sound amused. 

He actually calls Xabi an ‘outright coward’ and accuses him of burning bridges while he’s standing on them. Xabi invites him to dinner anyway. Pepe curtly refuses to call anyone for him and tells Xabi that he can do that himself. Xabi understands. 

Everyone else is less confrontational until he gets to Fernando, who shows up on Xabi’s doorstep on his own. It’s interesting how their conversation goes because Xabi doesn't expect it when Fernando sincerely wishes him the best.

“It’s not going to be the same without you,” adds Fernando out of the blue, like, in retrospect but Xabi somehow senses it’s not.

Xabi disagrees, but he doesn’t say anything, just accepts it. He suspects Fernando understands more than he lets on. He’s been there after all and they sit in each other’s silence until Nagore tells him he has to pick up extra food for his guests. 

That evening, Carra comes in late and last and Xabi holds his breath when he opens the door. The Englishman pats him the shoulder thoughtfully, shaking his head and gesturing at the empty void behind him, saying, “He’ll come around.”

Xabi doesn’t believe him. 

And true enough, Steven doesn’t ‘come around’. He doesn’t come or call at all. 

Xabi decides to wait as long as he can (he owes Steven more than that, he knows that), grips his phone when he walks with Nagore and John through customs and immigration. When they settle down in the first class lounge, it’s barely 8 in the morning and Xabi can see the sun in the rare clear blue sky. 

The only time he realizes that it's time to stop is when the Spanish immigration agent asks him where he’s been and he answers in English. The agent asks him the question again. 

The thought hurts and it’s heavy inside of him, but he puts his arms down anyway, shoving his phone into the bottom of his bag. Time’s up.

 

-

 

He’s not quite settled in when he does finally get it.

“Settled in?” asks Stevie. 

Something in Xabi’s chest flutters. 

“No,” he admits without any explanation. 

They talk for a long time. Apologies are exchanged, mostly from Xabi’s side. Later, he doesn’t end up remembering everything they talk about, too engrossed in the feeling to care about the details. He memorizes the profound ache as stands alone on his balcony, watching the Madrid sun. 

Steven tells him eventually that he has to go; he’s got laundry to pick up for Alex. And it’s so natural of him because Xabi can see Steven’s front door in his head like he’s standing right there with him.

“ _Come home_ sometime, yeah?”

It’s not an invitation or insurance. 

It’s forgiveness.

That’s all it takes, really, for everything to come full circle. Xabi bites his lips and looks at the sun as it sinks. It doesn’t look any different now, not any different from the sun in Istanbul or Bangkok or Albert’s Dock. 

It really is the same old sun, the same old fire burning over his head, the same old fire underneath and inside. 

Xabi leans into his phone. He chooses his words carefully because these days, he gets no take backs, “Of course,”

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story right after Xabi left the club (2009) and dedicated it to all the friends I made because of this fandom and this pairing. It was basically written as a long good bye. I never posted it outside my friends locked journal until today. 
> 
> Thanks to heyerruh for editing this.


End file.
